Eddie shot him.
Danks went flailing backward, the flare dropping but still pouring out its brilliant luminance. Gia screamed, went down to where Danks lay.
His jaw lit from beneath by the pink flare, Carboni moved up next to Eddie Maza. “You see, Gia? Loyalty. Too bad no one ever taught you how to be loyal.”
Eddie Maza put the gun to Lou’s stomach, squeezed the trigger. Lou Carboni went stumbling backward, his mouth a surprised O. “You’re right, boss,” Eddie said to Lou’s unbelieving face. “They told us only one of us was gettin’ out alive.”
Eddie turned the gun on the women. “And that includes the two of—”
A monstrous howl cut him off. Jillian had been with Eddie Maza for several hours, and for the first time he looked genuinely frightened.
“What was that?” Gia Carboni asked in a hushed voice.
Eddie Maza had taken a couple backward steps, was glancing around the tunnel in terror.
Jillian gripped the side of Gia’s arm. “Run,” she whispered.
The two darted away from Eddie.
Eddie shouted something, but Jillian couldn’t hear it above the inhuman roar coming from beneath them and the thunder of her heartbeat in her ears.
But she heard the gunshots he fired after them.
There was the sensation of high-tension electrical wires sizzling beneath his skin. It was the nanites, Bloodshot knew, reacting to the approach of the Master. The nanites were hypersensitive, which meant they picked up on far more than the average human nervous system would have. And far earlier. To Bloodshot the change had occurred even before he’d heard the inhuman roar coming from some unknowable abyss below him; to Bloodshot, the change had occurred the moment he’d murdered Love. It was as though his circulatory system and the Master’s were wired together, though the Master was obviously connected to his Love via some sort of telepathy. How else to explain the instantaneous bellow of outrage that had erupted upon Love’s death? But the nanites sensed the awakened presence too, and from that moment until now they had been telling Bloodshot to run.
But he knew he couldn’t. For one, there was Malcolm. The journalist’s body lay where it had fallen, the chest rising and falling but consciousness still a long way off. But even had Malcolm already escaped, Bloodshot wouldn’t have fled, because in doing so he would have been admitting failure. He had been injured, beaten, locked up, and temporarily bested; but never had he given up. And this creature, whatever the Master was, had orchestrated a plot that had nearly killed Neville Alcott and might yet result in Jillian’s death. No, Bloodshot thought, he was not going to run.
Bloodshot heard the creature long before he saw it. But when he did see the creature, he was so taken aback at the Master’s entrance that he had to stifle a shout of surprise. Rather than coming through the door on the opposite end of the stage the way he thought it would, the thing exploded through the floor of the theatre, scattering half a dozen vampires like shrapnel.
Bloodshot noted three things about the Master straightaway, and perhaps the reason he noticed these things so quickly was due to the fact that the creature’s appearance had so confounded his expectations. The first was how youthful the Master appeared. Despite the chalky flesh and the long, alabaster hair, the Master’s face was unlined, his movements and bearing as virile as a man of twenty. And this was the second fact that shocked him. The Master couldn’t fly precisely, but he could spring into the air as though equipped with metal coils in his black boots. And that was the third surprise Bloodshot experienced when first glimpsing the vampire king: the man’s dress was not antiquated or flowing like the movie vampires Bloodshot vaguely recalled seeing in his youth. In fact, there was nothing loose at all on the Master’s person. No cape, no robe, no wine-colored jacket. The garb was entirely black and unadorned. He wore a tight black long-sleeved shirt and tight black denim pants, with a thin black belt in between.
The vampires around the Master either dropped to their knees in worshipful respect or ran away in bug-eyed terror. Bloodshot was surprised at how many secret exits there were, for the vampires disappeared through two dozen hidden alcoves and hinged metal flaps. He made note of several of these, knowing he might have to get out of here in a hurry and that circumstances might prevent him from being too choosy about the manner of his escape.
The Master had no sooner landed on the theatre floor than he turned and regarded Bloodshot with eyes that gleamed an unsettling pale silver. The Master made no pretense of civility, donned none of the brazen demeanor that Eric Westenra had attempted to display. The Master was enraged, and he didn’t care if Bloodshot knew it. In fact, if the nanites were processing the data correctly, the Master was highly eager for Bloodshot to know how furious he was.
“She is dead then,” the Master said.
Bloodshot didn’t look at Love’s corpse. “You know she is.”
“Do you have any idea how old she was?”
Bloodshot didn’t respond, only watched the Master trod the theatre floor, the remaining thirty or so vampires taking care to scuttle out of his way, their faces still averted.
“She lived through the Ottoman Wars. Through the French Revolution,” the Master said. He had a deep, cultured voice, and though Bloodshot could detect an accent he had no idea what type it might be. “She was industrious and loyal through both, making certain our kind benefited and flourished through the bloodshed. She furnished me with ample sustenance. Many times in our eight hundred years together she might have abandoned me. She might have searched for a less … complicated existence. But she didn’t. She remained by my side while others fled or betrayed me. It is why I named her—”
“Love,” Bloodshot finished.
At the word the Master’s upper lip trembled slightly in what might have been a snarl or perhaps was merely annoyance at having been interrupted. “You know her name,” the Master said. “How is it that you know her name? I’m certain none of the others mentioned it.”
The Master hopped onto the stage as nimbly as a dancer, but his silver-eyed face remained stony. No, stony wasn’t quite right, Bloodshot decided. Wintry was how the Master looked to him. Literally and figuratively. With his long white hair and his almost blindingly pale skin, the Master appeared like some creature of the Arctic, his silver eyes the result of centuries spent on windswept glaciers. But the mental chill Bloodshot had experienced earlier, the freezing malice that seemed to reach out and entomb his body like an icy sepulcher, grew stronger the nearer the Master drew.
The Master raised his white eyebrows. “Where did you hear her name? Answer me!”
Bloodshot found he needed to open his mouth to keep breathing. “I … I don’t know. Sometimes things like that come to me.”
For the first time curiosity seemed to surmount rage in the Master’s face. “Does your blood do that for you? Does it reach into others’ minds?”
Bloodshot shook his head, glanced down at the stage distractedly. “It isn’t like that exactly. It’s more … more a …”
“Precognizance?” the Master suggested. He was ten feet away now and closing. “A prescience that allows you to avoid danger?”
“It’s that too, I guess.”
“Then why,” the Master asked and smiled ghoulishly, “haven’t you run from me? If you can sense danger and avoid it, why remain in harm’s way?”
Bloodshot grinned. “Who says I’m in harm’s way?”
He was skidding on his back. The Master had lashed out with such lightning rapidity that Bloodshot had scarcely seen him move. Not only had he knocked Bloodshot down, but he had dealt him such a crushing blow to the chest that Bloodshot now found breathing even more difficult than before.
Time to go, he thought. But not without Malcolm. Bloodshot rolled over slowly, the pain in his chest like a persistent sledgehammer at work. He got gingerly to his feet and began to move toward where Malcolm lay.
“Escape,” the Master said. “Yes, escape would be the most prudent course for you to
attempt. It will prove unsuccessful, but you might buy yourself another minute or two.”
“I aim to … live more than a minute or two.”
“And how will you do that, Mr. Mortalli? By fighting me? Do you really believe you’re capable of defeating an immortal?”
Bloodshot stopped, his back to the Master. “Name’s not Mortalli anymore. I left that behind long ago.”
“You left it behind? I think it would be more accurate to say it was left behind for you. You were an instrument of the mob, Mr. Mortalli, and now you’re an instrument of various organizations. The one consistent theme, however, is that you are an instrument, Mr. Mortalli. A mindless object to be manipulated by those far wiser than you. And tonight you will be my instrument, my … my gateway to the world above.”
Bloodshot turned. “About that.”
“Yes?”
“You look uncomfortable,” Bloodshot said. And he did. Though the Master now stood fifteen feet or so away, Bloodshot could easily discern the fat droplets of sweat on his brow and upper lip. In the pale silver eyes there was a glaze of physical pain.
“You know I’m uncomfortable,” the Master said.
“Because you’re sensitive to light.”
“You already know this.”
“I just wanted to confirm it.”
Now, a voice in his head whispered. Run now.
Not yet, he thought. Not quite yet. I have to know one more thing … one more thing that could make all the difference …
As if the matter had been decided, the Master took a step in his direction.
“What I don’t understand,” Bloodshot said, “is why you can’t go out at night like the others.”
The Master stopped, his expression flinty. “That’s none of your business.”
Bloodshot looked around. “There are fires all around this theatre. They bother you, I can tell. But why would the lights aboveground be any worse?”
“Because the city lights are brilliant,” the Master said impatiently.
“So’s that fire,” Bloodshot said, nodding at a barrel fire near the hole in the theatre floor. “You walked right past that and it didn’t seem to bother you.”
“I steeled myself against the theatre fires,” he said. “Similarly, I could inure myself to the lights of New York City, but only for a short period of time. That is why we need to proceed with the transfusion.”
“And you think the nanites will protect you against light.”
The king vampire smiled. “I know they will.”
“And if they don’t?”
“There’s no need to worry—”
Bloodshot lurched toward where Malcolm lay, the vampire’s speech cutting off and transforming into a sibilant sound that reminded Bloodshot of the swish his katana blade generated when he swung it at an enemy. Oh, for the sword now. He doubted it would be equal to the task of destroying the Master, but it would be more reassuring than what he carried in his inner trench coat pocket, a weapon he’d never used and one in which he therefore placed little hope. Bloodshot was five feet from Malcolm, but he already heard the whistle of the king vampire’s body carving the air behind him. At the last possible moment before the Master crashed into him from behind, Bloodshot fell, his enormous arms sheltering Malcolm’s prone body in case the Master landed on him.
But the king vampire struck the stage just beyond where Bloodshot was hunched over Malcolm, the Master’s momentum compelling him nearer the door leading to the body field. It was to the body field Bloodshot needed to carry Malcolm—and to the tube he’d spotted that led down to the corpse-littered floor—but that route was currently barred.
Without hesitation, Bloodshot scooped Malcolm’s limp body into his arms, took three chugging strides, then leapt out into the main area of the theatre, where the many vampires were beginning to recover from their awestruck prostration. When Bloodshot hit the ground, he promptly mowed down a gawking vampire and then took out two more using Malcolm’s body as a battering ram.
“Sorry, old friend,” Bloodshot muttered to his unconscious companion.
Peripherally, he saw the Master hesitate, as if doubting that Bloodshot could exit the theatre from the lower area, but then the Master’s black clothing blurred, his white hair swishing out behind him, and he was racing Bloodshot toward the wall. Bloodshot faked toward one of the metal flaps through which he’d watched a vampire disappear; the Master lunged toward the flap, beating Bloodshot there easily.
The ruse worked. The moment the Master reached the metal wall flap, Bloodshot spun around like a running back, and pounded toward a recessed spot into which he’d seen two of the vampires disappear. If it was only an enclosure, Bloodshot and Malcolm were likely both goners. Not only would they be face-to-face with a pair of waiting vampires, but the Master would momentarily arrive to slay them in the shadows, their flight from the theatre aborted before it truly began.
But the alcove did indeed contain a narrow gap. Hoping there was some give in the metal on either side of the recessed alcove, Bloodshot turned sideways and led with Malcolm’s feet so he’d avoid braining his friend if the sides of the gap proved unyielding.
The gap allowed them through, the metal lips bowing out slightly as they squeezed between. Yet they’d only gone two steps before the Master came knifing through the gap too, the king vampire’s speed appalling. But Bloodshot now discovered another low archway ahead. He’d reach it in nine or ten strides.
Bloodshot put his head down, teeth gritted, sprinting harder than he had in his life. Behind him he heard the king vampire’s spry steps break off, the Master no doubt leaving the floor in one of his majestic leaps. Time seemed to slow. It would be a near thing, Bloodshot decided in that moment. Either Bloodshot and Malcolm would make it through or the Master would land and block the archway. If that happened, the transfusion would begin in short order. Sure, Bloodshot could do his best to hold the Master off, trade a few blows to try and stun the king vampire. But he’d seen what the Master could do, he’d felt the creature’s immense power and witnessed his speed. Maybe if Bloodshot had not sustained three dozen injuries in the past six hours he’d stand a better chance, but now he felt battered and broken. Weakened by the continued trauma to his body and badly frightened that this creature would spell his demise.
Clutching Malcolm to his chest, Bloodshot slid like a baseball player going in hard to break up a double play. Overhead, in the meager light slanting in from the theatre, he saw a shape descending. Bloodshot and Malcolm swept under the archway a moment before the Master slammed down to stop them. Then there came a vertiginous moment in which Bloodshot and Malcolm were falling; he just hoped they would land in the field of corpses.
It was their last hope.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
* * *
Speed and surprise, he thought. Speed and surprise.
Bloodshot crawled forward, squinting. He came to the next body, sniffed. Uh-uh. All wrong. The stink it put out was like a living, breathing entity. The noxious cloud cored into his nostrils, made his eyes water. He heard the Master behind him, the king vampire moving at a leisurely pace now, confident that Bloodshot would not escape.
Speed and surprise.
Bloodshot clambered forward on hands and knees, a sense of desperation closing over him. He picked out a corpse with his keen eyes. It looked intact, but when he bent over it and inhaled, the odor that filled his nostrils was indescribable, even worse than the last one had been. Flies buzzed around him, the rats chattering their disapproval of his presence. He crawled to another corpse, but he could see this one had been here for some time, the thing that had once been a young woman looking nearly mummified. He clenched his teeth, feverishly probing the darkness. None of the corpses were right. None of them—
His keen eyes picked out the face of the next body. It was fresh. It was …
It was Frankie Canelli.
Perfect. He scrambled over to it, touched Frankie’s neck. The body was still warm. The Master’s f
ootsteps drew nearer.
The litany repeated in Bloodshot’s mind: Speed and surprise.
It steadied him. Bloodshot reached down, got a good grasp, and pulled. The tendons in his arms and neck bulging, he hauled up as hard as he could. He felt the object tear loose. Sweat was pouring off him. He longed to shed the trench coat, but it held his last hope and was the only way of concealing the weapon. He shuffled sideways, getting into a better position. He reached down toward Frankie, grabbed hold of the second object, and hauled back on it until it tore free.
Bloodshot scuttled away from Canelli’s desecrated corpse, hoping the Master hadn’t seen what he’d been up to. If he had, this was all pointless. Bloodshot lay back, slid his arms out of the trench coat, and adjusted everything just right. Carefully, he retrieved the object that had been pressing against his chest in the big inner pocket of the trench coat. He situated it at his side, hoped nothing had happened to its batteries during his fights with the vampires.
The Master drew closer.
Bloodshot forced himself to breathe. The Master would find him, but it was imperative that Bloodshot looked like his energy was sapped. He closed his eyes, thinking.
I could inure myself to the lights, the Master had said. But only for a short time.
Be still, Bloodshot told himself. You must be as motionless as you’ve ever been. You do that, the Master just might believe you’re giving up.
He sensed the Master’s presence, felt the malice and hunger radiating from the ancient vampire.
Speed and surprise, Bloodshot reminded himself.
He could hear the Master’s methodical footfalls approaching. If he hadn’t yet, the Master would reach Malcolm’s body soon. Bloodshot had a nightmarish vision of the Master kneeling over Malcolm’s helpless body and deciding the temptation for a warm drink was too inviting to resist. But keeping Malcolm beside him wouldn’t have worked. Bloodshot wouldn’t have been able to search the corpses as quickly or effectively while towing Malcolm around, and that didn’t take into account what might happen in a moment. If Bloodshot’s plan did work, and if the Master reacted as violently as he assumed the Master would, Malcolm could easily get killed simply by being in the vicinity.
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